2 - Secrets: Ike Schwartz Mystery 2 (18 page)

Chapter Thirty-five

As uninformed as the Mission Board seemed to be the night before, by eleven o’clock the next morning, when the Bible study assembled, it appeared everyone knew about the murder. When Blake joined them, Rose Garroway was in full voice. All the contempt she once held for Millicent poured out in a torrent. She had an appreciative and supporting audience and soon others joined in, adding their resentment to Rose’s. Blake sat quietly and listened. He heard in their anger the echo of his own.

Millicent Bass had wounded him twice. She’d substituted innuendo letters in the Board’s packet for exculpatory ones, and then sent the same damning letters to Mary. Because of the first, most of the leadership, and many others, he supposed, thought of him as unfit and certainly undesirable as their minister. And for a while, Mary must have, too.

Millie, Rose opined, had become a destructive force and had received a form of divine judgment. Her words were hard and unforgiving. Finally, Blake held up his hand.

“Rose, stop, enough. The woman is dead. Nothing we say now can change who she was. On the other hand, the things we do say now reflect on us, not on her.”

The group fell silent. Rose reddened and looked unhappy.

“You know I have as much reason to dislike her as anyone in this room, maybe more.” He told them about the letters. Amazed expressions lit several faces. The regulars, like Rose, nodded as if to say, “I thought so.” The newer members looked shocked.

“I figured something like that happened,” Rose said, “Didn’t I, Minnie?” Her sister let her eyes leave the knitting in her lap long enough to nod and smile.

“There are a lot of people who need to hear that story, Vicar. That woman….”

“No more, Rose. It’s time to let her rest in peace.” He waved off the protests and said, “Millicent Bass lived her life as a lonely and unhappy woman. Because of it, or in addition to it—I am not sure which—she developed a destructive habit. If she had not been so lonely, she might not have become a world-class gossip. But her habit of snooping and telling became a way to develop friendships and a kind of perverted happiness. I imagine it started out innocently enough—she knew something no one else knew and she shared it, harmless gossip, I expect most of us would call it. Somewhere along the way, someone or something twisted her around and set her on the path she took.” He looked into the skeptical faces of his audience.

“Listen, did anyone have their arm twisted? Was anyone forced to listen? At one time or another, each of you participated in it, first or second hand. Did you say anything? Did you walk away? The truth is—we were all her co-dependants. We promoted it. I suppose some even encouraged it. If gossip is what killed her, then we all stand accused of aiding and abetting.”

The room stayed silent for a long time. Finally, Rose said, “Don’t you just hate it when your clergyman turns out to be a Christian?” and the women laughed, relieved. Blake joined them and then said, “You know Millie’s funeral is Friday. I don’t think very many people will come, and that is a shame.”

“We can’t do much about that,” Rose said. “As ye sow, so shall ye reap—”

“That may be true. But then, I think you all should be thinking about what you were sowing here just a few minutes ago. I think it is about time we started sowing good seed. You don’t want a group like this picking the meat off your bones when your time comes.”

He watched as the frowns turned into embarrassed smiles.

“Here’s what I want you to do. Call your friends and get them to the funeral. I don’t care if they moan and groan. And then, I want you all to do the eulogies. I want each of you to find something nice to say about Millie at her funeral.”

“So that someone, not exactly our nearest and dearest, will do the same for us someday?” Minnie asked.

“Perhaps. It’s more along the lines of loving your enemy, Minnie.”

“I think it would be easier to find an ice cube in Hell than to find something positive about Millicent Bass,” Sylvia snorted.

“I’ll tell you something else,” Blake said. “Our anger and contempt for her is not healthy. It is in our own best interest to get rid of it, or we will carry it to our grave, and the dark force that led Millie to wander down the path she took will remain in our hearts, and the Devil will have won after all. We will purge our demons faster and more completely with an act of love than with an act made in anger. Remember what I told you Sunday? That the root for the word gossip and the root for the word gospel is the same? A story that edifies is God’s word. A story that destroys is the Devil’s. Unfortunately, discerning the difference between the two is sometimes very hard. We need to remember that all of us tread very close to that line most of the time. So Friday, try to show some mercy on one who crossed it.”

The meeting ended and they adjourned to the mall for lunch. Blake begged off. He said he had arrangements to make for the funeral. There were a few other things on his mind as well.

***

Most municipal graveyards are designed to provide a sense of peace for visitors, mourners, and the curious. Picketsville’s Memorial Park was no exception. Located on a hillside west of town and planted with trees representing every local variety, it offered visitors both an arboretum and a stunning view of the Blue Ridge Mountains to the east. Behind, to the west, a state park established a permanent buffer against any possible commercial or residential encroachment and provided a soft, evergreen backdrop.

Eloise Schwartz, nee McNamara, occupied a small plot in the corner close by a small copse of dogwoods. Picketsville may have had its detractors, those who found its size or rustic culture wanting, its people backward and its vision limited, but whatever drawbacks it may or may not have had, its cemetery belied them all. It always struck Ike as ironic that the town’s chief critics were concentrated at the college, since most of what they decried fell to them to provide. Ike parked the car and sat for a moment behind the wheel. Ruth stared straight ahead.

“This is the first time I’ve been out here,” Ruth said, her voice hushed. “It’s beautiful.”

He opened the door and walked around to open hers. On any other day, she would have opened her own door and, if he had tried to be male and gallant, given him a quick lecture. But not today. Not lately, in fact. He opened the door and she stepped out.

“No headstones?” Ruth was raised in the antique northeast where churches were routinely photogenic and had charming, movie set graveyards surrounding them.

“I brought her here, because she had no family,” he said. “Her parents were killed in an automobile accident when she turned eighteen. She has a brother on disability from Desert Storm. He drinks most of it. There was no one else, so I brought her here.”

They walked along a gravel path to Eloise’s corner and sat on a stone bench. In spite of the afternoon sun, the bench felt cool on the backs of their legs. Eloise had a plaque set flush with the earth six feet from them. There was a place to put flowers, but Ike had not thought to bring any. He wished he had. He vowed he would the next time he came. On an impulse, he stood and collected some wildflowers that had crept past the cut line into the lawn. He laid them on the sod at a point he guessed would be above her heart.

They sat in silence for a long time. What could he say? Honeysuckle surrounded the place, clinging to shrubs and low trees, its tendrils reaching out toward the open grass. If the mowing crew did not stay on top of it, it would soon cover the place and in a year the cemetery would disappear beneath a mountain of tangled stems. It was a sobering thought. The cloying sweet scent filled the still, warm air. Somewhere two blue-jays argued. Nature is never silent. Humans may think they are the purveyors of noise and when they quiet down, the world is silent, but they are wrong. Insects, birds and small living things buzz, click and sing twenty-four hours a day. It is ears that do not hear that create silence.

Ike, elbows on knees, lowered his chin into his cupped hands. Ruth sat perfectly still, waiting. When his shoulders began to shake, she put her arm around him. He leaned on her shoulder. They stayed there that way for twenty minutes.

“Thanks,” is all he said, and led her back to the car.

“Anytime.”

The trip back to town seemed shorter than it had coming out.

***

The boys walked slowly through the back lot kicking the tall grass, heads down and faces puckered in concentration. They walked slowly back and forth, searching but not finding. Finally one of them saw Blake standing in the parking lot and strolled over, trying to look laid-back and cool.

“Say, Mister,” he said, “have you seen our box?”

Blake inspected the boy. He could have been anywhere between twelve and fifteen. He carried a skateboard under his arm. Blake noticed they all had them. The others stopped walking and watched their companion from a distance, straining to hear what he said.

“What kind of box? Maybe a gray steel one with papers inside?”

“Yeah. We found it by them steps,” the boy said, pointing at the church’s basement entrance. His tone indicated no concern that he and his friends might have taken something that belonged to someone else. “We figured it was, like, trash and we could use it to make a ramp.”

“What happened to the papers inside it?”

“We left them in there. Only a couple of old folders anyway.”

“You didn’t see a lot of folders? Just two or three?”

“Yeah, just the ones like I said.”

Blake searched the boy’s eyes. Did he tell the truth or did he want to cover up the fact he and his friends took the box and tossed the files?

“When did you find the box?”

“Like in May or June. I don’t know for sure. While ago.”

“Not more recently than that? Three weeks, not three months ago?”

“No sir, you can ask anybody. We kept it out in the field there covered with old newspapers.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, we did find it, and since it belongs to the church, we kept it. Maybe I can find you another box.” He saw the doubt and disappointment register in the boy’s eyes.

“You go to church?”

“Nah. Nothing doing in church has anything to do with me.”

“How about your folks?”

“They tried this one once, but said it was, you know, like, totally cold.”

“Cold? You mean unfriendly?”

“Yeah, that way.”

“But you do like the church’s parking lot. Something there for you.”

“Well the other guy, the one who was in charge before you, said it was okay to skate and do our tricks here if there wasn’t nobody around. Be better if you paved the rest of the lot, though.”

“Pave it?”

“Some ramps and a half-pipe, that’d be, like awesome.”

Blake did not know what a half-pipe was but guessed it would, indeed, be very awesome, or awful. He’d have to think about that. The boy walked away to explain to his friends what had happened to their ramp prop.

Sylvia Parks and then Schwartz drove up a moment later. He looked at his watch. Five forty-five. Close enough. Sylvia alighted from her Mercedes SUV at the same time the sheriff slid out of his standard government-issue Crown Vic. She began talking in full stride. “Krueger, I assume, must be Waldo in another life. I will pursue that later, but I have something else to tell you first, Sheriff,” She dug a sheaf of papers from her purse. “This is a court order authorizing us to ‘enter, inspect and remove as appropriate any and all such church property as may be found on or about the premises known as’…etcetera, etcetera.”

“How did you manage that?”

“It happens that Attorney General Croft is my son-in-law, and Judge Landis, who signed this rag, is my husband’s old college roommate. It’s a small world, don’t you think?”

Schwartz stood motionless in the parking lot, staring at her, eyes hard. Blake shifted his gaze between the two of them. He sensed Schwartz had something on his mind but had no idea what it might be.

“You look shocked,” she said, her face serene. “Don’t be. When you need to, you pull strings to get things done all the time, am I right? I just have more and bigger strings than you do, that’s all. So let’s go.”

Sylvia drove them into Westerfield and parked in front of Waldo’s house. Blake counted doors and saw they were only four houses from Mary’s. A few neighbors gawked at them from their front yards. The house was locked, but there was no crime scene tape on the yard.

Schwartz pulled out a ring of keys, inspected them and inserted one in the lock. It turned and the bolt clicked over.

“Thought so,” he muttered, and stepped in, followed by Blake and Sylvia.

“Did the FBI search the house?” Blake asked.

“Don’t know. I don’t think so, but they didn’t say.”

“Well, I guess that answers your question,” Schwartz said and surveyed the chaos in the house. The first floor looked like Millicent Bass’ house, with papers and belongings strewn everywhere.

“I don’t think the FBI made this mess. I think they are very professional when it comes to running searches. They wouldn’t leave a place looking like this, would they?” He said it positively, but Schwartz heard the doubt in his voice.

“We were in and out. Took his computer, some records, and that’s all.” He looked puzzled. He had not made the search, Sam and Billy had, and left everything looking perfectly normal…still.

They spent the next hour and a half sifting through files, drawers, cupboards, and cabinets, re-searching the house. Ike rolled back the rugs, checked the bottoms of drawers and even the ice dispenser. Nothing out of the ordinary turned up. Blake removed the grilles on the hot air ducts and reached in as far as he could. The desk turned up only a computer-generated list of names, most of them members of the church. A few Blake did not recognize, and there were one or two more names that did look familiar, but he could not tell why. His name had been handwritten at the bottom, apparently a later addition to the others. It had a question mark penciled in after it. The list probably did not qualify as “church property,” but he pocketed it anyway.